


tell me how many

by untouchableocean



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angry Sex, M/M, Post Austria 2019, charles is having none of it, dont see that much, max is a bitch, not-quite-boyfriends-but-more-than-fuckbuddies, oh yeah, one use of the french language (proceed with caution), some kind of pre-established fuckery, this is happening ladies, top!Charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 11:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untouchableocean/pseuds/untouchableocean
Summary: Now Charles is the one with the pent up anger, the emotions boiling over, and Max is the one baring everything, letting Charles do whatever he needs to do, take whatever he needs to take. // translations into chinese and russian available





	tell me how many

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [tell me how many](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19485148) by [Prephilo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prephilo/pseuds/Prephilo)



> austria 2019: *happened*  
> max/charles shippers: >:3c  
> also THANK YOU A BILLION TIMES to the lovely nat (aka @lasorcas), who got to read this before anyone else did and told me it was brilliant. ily forever 💞
> 
> translation into chinese is linked above, thank you so much to @Prephilo for translating it! 💗  
> translation into russian is here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/8534041 (i couldn't work out how to add it as a link whoops, defeated by technology once again. thank you to @Crow_Dust for translating! 💞)

Max doesn’t feel bad.

Okay, that’s a lie. Maybe he feels a little bad. But that’s just racing, right? Someone’s in front of you, you pass them, simple as. Even if that someone happens to be your weird not-quite-a-boyfriend-but-more-than-a-fuckbuddy. Max figures that if he wants to be a bitch about it he can, it’s not his problem, but he’d really been looking forward to sharing the podium champagne with Charles. Not that he’d admit it, of course.

He’s sitting in his hotel room, twiddling his thumbs, wondering what to do now. He tries to think about how happy he is for the win, even after all the stress of waiting for the penalty that never came, but it fades into the background, replaced with the image of Charles’ face on the podium. His eyes had been so carefully guarded but his body language told the real story. He can’t shake the memories, the brush past in the drivers’ room, the hands on his hips, the sharp exit off the podium.

Fuck this.

He opens up messages and his thumb hovers over Charles’ name. He cringes slightly at the wilting rose emoji next to his name. Should he? No. Will he? Yes.

Charles<

Mate I’m sorry<

Mate.

>Fuck off

>Mate

Well, a reply is more than he was expecting, especially after the stewards’ decision. He knows he should do just that, fuck off, but he’s not really in the mood to.

Stop being a pussy<

It was fair racing<

Even the stewards agreed<

>You steered into me how is that fair racing asshole

>The stewards fucked me over just like they fucked Seb over

Jesus Christ. Is he still not over that?

Oh my god get over yourself<

You didn’t get out of the way how is that my fault<

>So you say its my fault that you drove into me

Jesus you were off the track anyway<

Sorry your driving was shit I guess??<

He feels his heart drop a little as he hits send. That was uncalled for and he knows it. The typing bubble pops up and down about five times before disappearing entirely, and Max feels worse than when he started. He chucks his phone on the floor, electing to stare hopelessly at the ceiling feeling sorry for himself. That’ll fix things, for sure.

He’s about to shower when he hears a frantic banging at his door. A shiver runs down his spine as he gradually realises who’s on the other side. He opens the door and is immediately greeted with a very, _very_ angry Charles.

Before he even knows what’s happening Charles has him pinned up against the door, clutching his shirt with an iron grip. His eyes are blown wide with sheer fury, pale green turned dark with rage, and sweat makes his hair cling to his forehead.

“Fuck you!” The force with which he hisses his words sends a couple of drops of spit onto Max’s face. “You want to fight, we can fight, huh? You stole my fucking race and you want to call my driving shit? Get fucked!”

The sentence ends with Charles pulling Max forwards and slamming him back into the hard door. Max’s hands fly to Charles’ fists in a weak attempt to pull him off, but Charles’ grip is firm.

“Please, I didn’t steal your race! I won fair as anything!”

“Fair!?” Charles’ voice is louder now and his breath is hot against Max’s nose. “You ran me off the fucking track!”

“You were already off the track!”

“I could have held you!”

“Your lead was gone!”

Max is getting exasperated, and he almost wants to push Charles off him. He knows he can, physically he’s far stronger than the Monégasque but something stops him. This is going somewhere, and Max thinks Charles might need it more than anything else right now.

“You didn’t have to take it!”

“Of course I had to take it, what the hell else was I supposed to do? Just let you win, at my team’s home-”

“How many wins have you had?”

The abrupt lack of venom in Charles’ voice startles Max.

“Sorry?”

“How many grand prix wins have you had?”

Max goes still and drops his hands away from Charles’. He knows, but his mouth refuses to follow his brain. Suddenly one of Charles’ hands finds Max’s throat and pins him completely to the door.

“Tell me!” The venom is back, and he’s speaking through gritted teeth. “Tell me how many!”

“Six!”

Charles presses a little harder on Max’s throat, drawing a gasp from the Dutchman. He doesn’t squeeze tightly, just enough to let Max know who’s in control and Max relaxes his throat, letting him take it.

“That’s six more than me.”

Charles bites his lip and looks down at Max’s neck, finally letting go and trailing his hand down to rest flat on Max’s chest. Silence hangs heavy between them, and Charles balls up the fabric of Max’s shirt in his hand before smashing their mouths together in a furious kiss.

The kiss is hot and heavy and angry because Charles is still pissed at him, and Max lets him fuck his tongue into his mouth almost immediately, savouring the weak taste of champagne that must taste so bitter to Charles as he sucks it off his tongue. He whines into Charles’ mouth as he feels him bite down hard on his bottom lip, breaking the soft skin before pulling away.

Charles is grinding against Max’s thigh now, and he moves to suck and bite at Max’s neck, impatiently tugging at his polo. Max obliges and pulls it off before dragging off his shorts and briefs as well. His already hard cock springs out, and he knows he’s giving Charles full access to his body. He leans back against the door and closes his eyes, his breathing shaky.

He feels rather than sees Charles step backwards, and he waits for the inevitable sound of his zip being undone but nothing comes. He relaxes a little, unclenches his jaw (which he hadn’t even noticed he’d been clenching) and steadies his breathing. He cautiously cracks open one eye to see Charles just standing in front of him, seemingly considering what do actually do next.

It’s not like they’ve never had angry sex before, but they’re both painfully aware that this is uncharted territory. It’s never been like this before, it’s always been Max knocking his way into the room, pushing Charles against a door, pounding him into the mattress until he’s screaming into the pillow. But now Charles is the one with the pent up anger, the emotions boiling over, and Max is the one baring everything, letting Charles do whatever he needs to do, take whatever he needs to take.

Charles steps forwards again and pushes at Max’s shoulder, not forcefully but encouraging him down onto his knees. He hits the carpet with a thud, and he thinks that considering how expensive this hotel is, the carpet should surely be softer. He fumbles with Charles’ zip, looking up at his still face, marvelling at the silence. He forgets he and Charles are the same height sometimes.

He pulls the shorts and briefs down and Charles runs his fingers through Max’s hair, resting at the base of his skull and holding him there. He rubs his cock on Max’s full lips and the Dutchman obediently opens his mouth, letting Charles push his length straight in to the hilt. The Monégasque lets out a moan and stills, his face contorting into a mess of pleasure.

“Oh, fuck." He murmurs, voice quiet and breathy. “That’s really good.”

If Charles wasn’t occupying his mouth he’d smile at the praise, so he hums appreciatively instead, staring up at Charles with such reverence usually reserved for kings. Charles closes his eyes and tightens his grasp on Max’s nape, hand holding Max firmly in place as he starts thrusting blindly into the wet warmth of Max’s mouth.

Max relaxes his throat and lets his jaw go slack as Charles speeds up his thrusts, the only noise in the room the slap of skin on skin, Charles’ laboured breathing, and the occasional gag from Max as Charles hits the back of his throat. He closes his eyes but Charles pulls him off abruptly.

“Non, regarde moi.”

_Look at me._

His voice is strained, and Max can’t tell if it’s from arousal or anger or both. Max looks into his eyes from below, looking past the anger and all he can see is pain, raw pain, and he starts to understand a little. Charles tightens his grip but it’s not enough to really hurt, and Max knows it’s a show of dominance more than anything.

Charles rolls his hips back into Max’s mouth and Max keeps his eyes wide open, never looking away from Charles as he fucks his face, hollowing his cheeks and flattening his tongue and breathing through his nose and he know what Charles is doing, trying to break him down, make him weak, and he’s determined not to give in completely.

Max suddenly feels Charles’ thighs tighten and he pulls off again, flushed and panting. He lets go of Max’s hair and Max drops his head, gasping for air. Charles tilts his head up by his chin and runs two fingers over his swollen lips. He brushes away the tears Max hadn’t even noticed had started to cascade from his eyes before reaching down, offering him a hand up. Max shakes his head, pushing himself up. He hasn’t lost it yet, not completely. Charles steps back again and Max leans against the door, watching him through bloodshot, teary eyes.

“Finger yourself.”

Charles bites his lip again, holding his composure and contemplating Max with an expectant look. Max brings two fingers to his lips and wets them, taking time to suck and lick at them, his jaw still aching a little from the blowjob. He never breaks eye contact, making sure that Charles sees every second.

He moves his legs apart and presses a wet finger to his hole, rubbing around a little before pushing in. He moans at the intrusion, trying his best to relax as he pushes in to the knuckle. As much as he wants to put on a show, he also knows Charles is probably in no mood to wait around, so he braces himself and shoves a second finger in.

He cries out, knowing he’s going too fast but his cock is already leaking, and he’s almost embarrassed at how needy he must look, clumsily fucking himself and staring back at Charles through heavy eyelids, gasping as he brushes his prostate. He doesn’t think he can fit a third finger in, not with the lack of proper lube, so he scissors the two that are already inside.

He squeezes his eyes shut and groans before finally pulling out, wincing at the sudden emptiness. It’s barely enough and he knows it, but he doesn’t even care at this point. He drops his head back against the door, sweaty and shaking. His cock bounces against his stomach, leaving a wet patch below his navel. It’s not just the physical act that’s left him shaking, it’s the submission, the knowledge that even though he just won a grand prix, the man on the second step can reduce him to this.

“Get on the bed.”

Max nods and ambles across the room to the bed, feeling Charles’ cool hand on his back as he passes. It’s a small gesture but Max feels the touch course through his veins, an intimate gesture compared to the utter annihilation he knows he’s about to willingly submit himself to.

The sheets are silky soft as he crawls onto his hands and knees and he bundles the fabric in his hands, dropping his head down. His cock hangs between his legs and he resists the temptation to touch it, knowing that this isn’t about him, it’s about Charles, and all the pent up anger from today, from Bahrain, from every single near miss and low step and he suddenly feels a pang of guilt gnawing at his stomach, and it only tightens as the bed dips behind him.

“Charles, I-”

“Shut up.”

Fair enough.

Charles runs his hand over Max’s ass and Max hears him spit into his hand, slicking up his cock as much as he can stand before lining it up with Max’s hole. He shuffles slightly to grip at Max’s hips and when Max feels loose fabric brush against his skin, he realises Charles is still wearing his team polo. Max suddenly feels incredibly small, and he understands that this is it, Charles has got him; no more façade of power, no more desperate grasping for dominance, Charles has stripped him of it all and Max let him do it.

And with that Charles pushes into him and Max lets out a raspy groan, dropping his face into the mattress. He doesn’t bother to ease into it, hitting hard and fast every time. There’s no rhythm to it and Max can’t even push his hips back because of how tightly Charles is gripping at them, and he’s sure he’ll have palm shaped bruises after this.

He whimpers into the pillow as Charles leans forwards, moving his hands up to Max’s waist and finding his swollen prostate. He hits it again and again and Max tries to push himself back onto all fours but Charles shoves him back down with a hand threading through his hair, pulling the short strands and rubbing his face into the smooth sheets.

Max can feel his back sweating, making Charles’ red shirt damp as he adjusts his position, practically lying on Max now, biting and sucking at his neck as he somehow goes deeper. Max’s cock is grinding against the sheets and he can feel his orgasm building, pulling and twisting at his lower abdomen before he yells out and soaks the sheets below.

Max almost feels like he’s floating somewhere between one world and the next as Charles keeps going, giving him absolutely no time to recover from his orgasm, fucking him ruthlessly and sending aftershocks through his body until he finally bites down on Max’s shoulder, groaning loudly as he comes inside him.

There’s a moment of silence as the two of them regain their composure, or some semblance of it at least. Charles places a soft kiss to Max’s nape before pulling out, leaving Max with an almost unbearable feeling of emptiness. He feels numb, completely fucked out, and he’s only vaguely aware of Charles shifting off the bed.

He comes back to reality a little when he feels something damp pressing against his thighs. He jumps, and Charles withdraws the cloth.

“Just cleaning up.”

Max hums in acknowledgement and lets Charles wipe the fluids from his inner thighs, hissing a little as he gently rubbed over his sensitive hole, getting the last of the cum out of him. Charles chucked the flannel across the room and fell on the bed next to Max, beckoning him over.

Max considers it for a second before rolling himself into Charles’ arms. His shirt is gross, covered in sweat and spit and what looks like a tiny bit of cum, but Max nuzzles into Charles’ neck regardless. He looks up at Charles and sees the anger is gone now, and all he sees is washy sadness, despondency, loneliness, and it twigs something in him.

He reaches up and kisses him, softly this time, humming into his mouth. When he pulls away he sees tears forming in the corners of Charles’ eyes, slowly falling off his long eyelashes and landing with a splash on the pillow between them. Max drags him into an embrace, slowly rubbing his back as he lets out the hot tears. He isn’t sobbing, just crying, and it’s somehow peaceful.

“I’m sorry I hit you. And I’m sorry I said your driving was shit.” Charles looks up, green eyes stark against the red of his whites. “You drove amazingly. Your win will come, and we can share a podium without stropping about it, yeah?”

Charles chuckles at that, snuggling closer to Max’s body.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

Max shakes his head.

“You could never hurt me. Not really.”

He blushes, worried he’s stepped over the invisible line, but Charles just places a kiss to his collarbone and closes his eyes. They both know they should shower and then separate, Charles shouldn’t stay, but a huge part of Max doesn’t want that, not tonight.

“Spend the night.”

It’s not a question, but Charles answers it anyway, voice thick with approaching sleep.

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> did you know that charles unfollowed max on instagram after the race? the pettiness came thru. he truly is seb and kimi's son


End file.
